Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 466. Tainted I
He finished his drink now, swirling the glass just a little before setting it down on the tray a passing servant carried.
"Your Majesty," the servant mumbled.
Angel nodded, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. Black silk, gold trim, immaculate. Nothing out of place. He turned his head just enough to find Jane again.
She was speaking with a noblewoman. Laughing lightly. Tilting her head in that easy, perfect way she did when she wanted to appear harmless. Her eyes flicked toward him once.
Then away.
But it was enough.
She knew.
Of course, she knew.
Jane was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them.
She had probably already guessed he'd tampered with the castle. Maybe even planned it with him. Maybe not. But she wouldn't stop him.
Because deep down, Jane wanted to know too.
What happened to Roric?
Why did her brother suddenly look at her like she was a stranger?
Or worse… a threat?
Angel had seen it.
Not just tonight, but in the years before. In the reports. In the memories Jane managed to share, piece by piece. In the silence between them.
The shift.
The unnatural change.
And now, with the Evil Eye's last glimpse, Angel saw it again.
That faint shimmer of smoke. That barely-there thread of black veining around Roric's nape, curling beneath his skin like something alive. Not a wound. Not magic residue from a battle. No. This was laced into his mana, coiled like a parasite hiding beneath noble flesh. Angel knew the signs, he had seen it. Subtle. Insidious. And terrifyingly effective. Because Roric… didn't even know.
He was in pain.
Not screaming. Not bleeding.
But… it was still pain.
And not even the kind you could feel with your hands.
It was the kind that stripped you in pieces. The kind that made you question whether the memories you had were yours at all. The kind that made you doubt your sister. Your king. Yourself.
Angel blinked slowly, letting the glamour over his eyes fade.
No one noticed. They were still smiling, sipping wine, twirling their forks through courtly appetizers. Rose was laughing politely beside Queen Seraphine, distracting attention like a master.
But Angel? Angel wasn't smiling.
He picked up his glass, swirled it slowly, and stared into the ruby-colored liquid like it might whisper truths if he tilted it just right. It didn't. But his thoughts did.
So… the prince is tainted.
Not by his own power. Not by ambition or madness.
By influence.
Dark magic. Curse magic. Long-term control magic, if he had to guess.
Someone fed it to him. Slowly. Carefully. Over time.
And Angel knew exactly who had access to do that.
The Queen.
Seraphine of Pontus.
Angel looked to the King.
Darius.
No visible enchantments. No black veins. No flicker of control magic. Just a cold, calculating presence. But there was no trace of the curse on him. Not like Roric.
So… Darius wasn't under control.
Which meant the hatred he had for Jane?
Real.
Not forged.
Angel's lip curled.
That… made it worse.
Because if the king wasn't controlled, then why exile his own daughter? Why erase her name from the family records? Why make her a ghost?
It wasn't affection, that much was clear.
Seraphine barely received a glance from Darius tonight. And she didn't offer him any either. They weren't lovers. They were assets. Marriage, political. Alliance, strategic. There was no tenderness. No fondness. Just duty.
Which begged the question again.
Why punish Jane?
Was it bloodline? Fear? Or…
Jealousy?
Angel tilted his head slightly, sipping from a glass of deep red Pontus wine. It was sweeter than Euphorion vintages. Softer on the tongue. But that sweetness felt almost cloying, like it was hiding something underneath. Much like this entire damn dinner.
He still didn't fancy wine, but Rose had given him a medicine to prevent him from getting drunk.
He didn't let the frown show on his face. He just smiled, subtle, diplomatic, the kind of smile that didn't reveal anything but said just enough. The nobles of Pontus liked to think themselves clever. He'd let them think that. Let them perform.
Across the table, Darius was speaking with another noble, expression stiff but pleasant enough to pass for nobility. Seraphine was perched like a glass figurine, shining, sculpted, hollow inside, laughing politely at some lord's joke.
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